Road to Venus

by rheeb

I am clearly moving on to a new chapter in my life. It’s amazing how things happen.

I have spent the vast majority of my life ignoring myself. I did this for a variety of reasons. And at this point, I literally cannot function while continuing to do so. I will physically hurt. I have had more pain this year than in my entire life. I have had benign chest pain, itchy skin (with no cause), psychosomatic tailbone pain, shoulder/backaches, chronic foot pain, and migraines. All of this has been a direct result of being ignored by my own self. I never felt worthy. Never. And in my world, I was repeatedly told that I was not worthy. So, I learned to escape me by living inside of things that had absolutely no value–religion, academics, self-hatred, and useless goals. Most of my life has been one long distraction–all so I wouldn’t have to face someone who, in my mind, was inherently worthless. Me.

And as things usually happen–from the spiritual realm of which I am certainly a part, but not always consciously aware–I was jolted by a quote from on my Facebook timeline that was written by Martha Beck. Not knowing who the hell she was, I looked her up, found myself intrigued, and decided to check out one of her books from the library–Finding Your Own North Star. And so it began, my road from Mars to Venus, but naturally, no matter how badly my mind wanted to commence the journey, my soul was obstinate. Now, when I read books, I usually try to get through them as fast as humanly possible, but this time, I had to go slowly. It’s filled with exercises that my soul had to complete. So, I restarted the book from the beginning, and with pen in hand, I started my work. I love that phrase–“my work”–because Iyanla Vanzant says that in her show theme, and I never really understood exactly what it entailed until now. So just imagine hating someone so much, but being forced to pay legitimate and purposeful attention to them. Yes, it feels like choking, which is exactly how I began to feel while beginning my work.

As I stated ever-so-cautiously in Thinnity, my body and I do not have the best relationship, and that fact has been front and center since I began this book. I have been faced with my very deeply seated belief that I, as a whole, will not have self-worth until I become very, very thin. Very thin. I’ve held this belief for as long as I can remember, so I decided to see if others felt as I do. And they do. I ended up at a blog post titled, “The Fantasy of Being Thin,” where the myth of thinness equaling perfection was eloquently debunked. By my reaction to this post, you would have thought that someone told me that I’d missed the last twenty years of my life due to being in a coma. I mourned deeply–crying at every turn–waking up in the wee hours of the morning and just crying and weezing, snotting and heaving. I have placed all of my hopes and dreams on the destination of thinness. And reality is, no matter how thin I become, I will always be me. Me. I have had fantasies about how amazing I would be as a thin person. How I would grow wings and fly naked to the destinations of my choosing. And to be hit with the realization that I would still be me just in a smaller body–my Lord, I swear–it was too much to handle. It was like I witnessed a death. I’d been living in the Matrix, apparently, and after crying everyday for the past two weeks, I finally made a list of what I feel thinness would allow me to accomplish in my life. I had forty things in the list that I titled, “Reasons Why I Desperately Want to be Thin”:

People will finally see me–the me inside.

I can escape hairy situations with greater ease.

I can wear stylish clothes.

Butches will find me attractive.

I would be lovable.

I wouldn’t be threatening or offensive to others.

My mom would love me more.

I could fit into smaller spaces.

There would be no need to wear a bra.

I could wear nice shoes.

My skin would look better.

I could shave my head bald.

People in general would find me attractive and hand me money at random for it.

I could go anywhere.

A butch could pick me up and carry me.

People would be nice to me.

It would be easier to flirt.

Everyone would think I’m beautiful.

I’d have more friends.

I wouldn’t be seen as a pig or lazy anymore.

I wouldn’t feel guilty about eating anymore.

I’d probably get baptized.

I’d ride every roller coaster.

I’d climb mountains.

I could run faster.

I could make it in Hollywood.

I’d get to have lots of sex.

I’d wear makeup.

I’d leave the house naked.

People would want to touch me.

I could make people fall for me.

I’d have a ton of celebrity friends.

Someone would buy me a Corvette.

People would think I have self-discipline.

I could sit on a butch’s lap.

I’d be so feminine.

I’d wax.

I’d have no health issues at all.

I would smoke, because it’d look sexy.

I’d be beautiful.

But after talking for hours on end to the insanely sane Chocolate Baby and trying desperately to connect with myself, I realized the depth of my mental illness when it comes to this issue. My list is absurd. Absolutely absurd. The disturbing thing is that even after being fully aware of how half-baked it is, a part of me still, even in this very moment, is desperately clinging to it. It’s weird to mourn for something that has brought you nothing but pain.

I am in a state of becoming. I’m feeling that anxiety of change. I am headed towards Venus–learning me and attempting every second to do that without regressing to my usual state of self-disdain. My heart beats.